Charlotte's Web
by midnighters
Summary: The story of the Cullens plays out over hundreds of years. And it always seems to revolve around one girl.
1. Chapter 1

You descend into the tombs below Volterra; an ancient and unsettling castle, the ruins of which, you and your team have been excavating for weeks. But you're not interested in what's above ground, are you? No... I know you. You're looking for the secrets buried beneath the dirt. Buried somewhere in the past.

The walls are unusually dry. Underground caverns left abandoned like this often drip with moisture and sometimes moss and other hardy plants get a foothold. But here is a lost palace of dust where nothing grows. You travel perhaps half a mile unperturbed into the darkness. The only light source comes from the bulb on the front of your hard hat. You can only see directly in front of you in one long line, leaving the shadows to envelop you on all other sides. They say monsters used to live in this castle. "They" are often fools.

You spend surprisingly little time inspecting the space around you. You can sense there's something hidden deeper and you know exactly the direction to go. You follow your instincts, as you always do. Knowing undoubtedly, they will lead you to trouble.

You find it. A door that to anyone else would look like a wall but you know, you _know_ it's a door. You are not psychic and don't believe in such things. You're simply an archeologist with almost twelve years experience and besides, you always had a knack for finding yourself somewhere you didn't belong. You might as well make a career out of it. You know this is a door because you know what doors look like when someone tried to pass it off as a wall. And when someone does that, there is always something incredible hiding just beyond.

You push. And push. And push. And good lord, these stones have not moved in centuries. And you push. Again. And again. Put your legs into it. That's it. It's starting to budge now. You can feel it give an inch. Just need a little more... There.

A skeleton is lunging toward you. How very cliché.

In the light of your torch, your trained eyes notice the discrepancies right away. This is not an articulated skeleton. Each bone is in fact several feet from the others and only come together to form the image when the viewer stands in the right spot. You've seen artwork like this hanging from gallery ceilings. But only half these bones are suspended from chains. The other half is scattered on the ground, having fallen from the spikes on which they were mounted as they rotted through.

You are not shocked by your discovery but you are somewhat bemused. This isn't what you were expecting. The Volturi are recorded as being a sophisticated, intellectual group. You were looking for books or some other treasure from an ancient world worth protecting, worth building a door that looks like a wall. This appears to be nothing more than a prison cell. You hadn't characterized the Volturi as petty. But this person had clearly pissed them off a great deal.

There had to be a reason and you want to search for it. You want to look for clues as to who this person was. They wouldn't have put the corpse on display in such a way if not to publically humiliated the individual and make an example of their crime. But then, they hid it. This grotesque excuse for art might have been for private enjoyment but again, that doesn't fit your profile of these once-great leaders. To dismember the body like this in secret could only be one thing. Torture. But there was no way this person was alive to feel it. The yearning for answers grows intolerable in your gut. And yet you are fixed in place. Just like your new friend.

You don't believe in ghost stories, I know. You've always been a skeptic and you were never afraid of the dark. That's why you're leading this team, isn't it? That's why you're down here alone in the dark, rushing headlong into hidden places no one else dares go. But you can't shake the feeling that skull is watching you.

Well, that's because it is.

You stare into its sockets and even though they're not there, you can feel its eyes staring back at you. It holds you in place, almost like if you look away, if you run, those rotten bones will chase after you. The smells in here start changing but you know it's all in your head, just like the music you think is playing in the distance. You get deja vu all the time but not like this; you don't feel like you've been here before, you feel like you never left. Images start flooding your mind and you don't have the will to fight them off.

This particular ghost story begins in 1664, in London. And it involves, as so many stories do, a beautiful young woman.


	2. Chapter 2

_London, 1664._

The city always changed at night. Scoundrels, rogues and vampires thrived in the dark. These streets were a terrible place for a young woman to be walking alone.

Charlotte Cullen walked the length of Hanbury Street by herself. Eyes scanning the road ahead, ears fixed on any sounds coming up behind her. Most of the noises were strays - cats, dogs, humans - and were benign. She had learned not to jump at that kind. In fact, she had learned by now not to jump at all. So when her deft hearing zeroed in on the more malevolent sounds floating from an alley, she was ready and alert.

The dim glow of the gaslights did not reach far enough into the alley to illuminate the scene in all its detail. And so, she reached for her crucifix with one hand and the knife in her belt with the other. There was a man and a woman lurking in the shadows and the lady was whimpering. The sound of her skirts ripping tore through the air as the assailant bid her be quiet.

Charlotte put the cross away and raised the knife. She held it up just so and the light bounced off the blade. The bizarre glimmer caught the man's eye.

"Ey?" he called out to the mouth of the alley. From this angle she would appear as nothing but a silhouette to him. "Wat ewe doin', eh? Ewe wan'a play?"

The woman beneath him scrambled away as he rose and stepped forward. He wasn't quite sure of himself, unable to make out the intruder. But he knew she was a woman and that made her fair game.

"Ewe jealous, luv?" he asked, grabbing at the member between his legs. "Didn' wan 'er 'avin' all the fun?"

Charlotte was cool, composed and collected as he approached. She practiced breathing techniques (which most of the others mocked) every day to keep her heart rate steady in situations like this. It wasn't wholly necessary with this particular fiend but it helped to keep her adrenaline in check. She would be in total control of her movements.

"Ah reckon ewe wan i' all tuh yerself," he stepped into the light to reveal a ghastly smile and his hairy little weapon, already exposed.

His eyes were fixed on the blade in the air, fingers twitching to grab for it, so he never saw the razor at her side. She swiped with that hand, slicing through the base of his cock. He barely had chance to react as she brought the other knife down, the pommel thwacking his forehead. With a chorus of groans, he was down on the ground clutching his manhood. The excess blood collected in his arousal formed a rapidly growing pool. She took a hurried step back to avoid soiling her shoes. It was unlikely he would be bothering the ladies - or the boys - of this neighbourhood again.

Charlotte continued on home, picking up the pace a little as it was now definitely past curfew.

The house on Primrose Street was only half so grand as one might think. It was deceptively tall and relatively narrow. The houses on either side, Charlotte knew, were home to families with much deeper pockets.

She pushed through the gate and walked briskly up to the door. The silver-plated No. 29 shone in the streetlight and all the way round, the doorframe was carved like a totem pole with crosses. Charlotte entered the house. The door was never locked, absurdly, as a way to test intruders. The uninvited could only be mortals, her grandfather claimed. And he had deluded himself into believing that made them less of a threat.

"And what time do you call this?" a voice came from the dark reception.

She realised now it was also a test for any family members out past curfew.

Charlotte turned in the direction of the voice, unphased. "I came across a raper. I had to deal with him."

"Was he attacking you?"

"No."

"Then it was not your concern," her grandfather then rose from the shadows and came forward. He was a young man still. In his forties. Both he and her own father had been young begetting children. She supposed they had to; no one in this family ever grew old. Her father certainly wouldn't.

"It was a vampire raper," she lied. "I was doing my duty."

"You were self-serving and now you're lying," he reproached her. "Vampires don't hunger for flesh. We serve a higher purpose, not your petty female agenda. Am I understood?"

"Yes, grandfather."

"Good. Now get gone."

He gestured toward the stairs, meaning for her to go to her room. But she glanced back as she reached the stairway and he was already out of sight. She slipped sideways and into the kitchen, toward the door leading to the cellar.

Down below ground, the air was forever cooler and moist compared to everywhere else. It was refreshing. Especially after a hunt. And down here, she could always be certain to find her uncle, pondering over texts and working as diligently as ever to rectify the flaws in their schemes.

"You're late," Carlisle did not need to look at her or his watch.

It was quite likely he'd been in here all day. With no windows, it was a wonder he didn't go mad from the lack of daylight.

"He was quite understanding," Charlotte mused as she took a seat on the bench across from him.

In the candlelight, she noticed from the drawings on the page that Carlisle was reading the journal of an expedition to Amazonia which he'd acquired last week. He was poring over the section about a large predatory cat. Charlotte was curious, of course. But she'd learned patience down here while watching her uncle study. He would elsewhere in his mind, stringing together conclusions that from here, had no business being strung. But in the end, he was always right.

"I think I've found something," he said.

It was always the same unassuming statement in the same delicate tone. As if to voice his assertions too soon would chase the discovery away. And it filled Charlotte with child-like excitement each time she heard it.

Carlisle reached for another tome - a heavy, ornate book on the occult containing more graphic illustrations than text - and placed it next to the journal. He was quiet for a moment longer as he gazed over the pages.

"We've made devils of them in our minds because we fear them and in turn, it feeds our fear. But say they weren't devils? Say they were animals as natural as any other beast?"

He was talking about vampires, she knew that. But she still didn't know what he was talking about.

"I don't follow."

Carlisle touched his fingers to the pages as if playing the piano. Beneath one hand was the jungle cat, beneath the other was a horned man-goat in red ink.

"This aversion to daylight, for instance. We've invented all manner of mystical explanations for it. Think, why would an animal not go out during the day?"

It was an effort to push all the pastor's lessons from her mind so she could consider his question clearly. After a moment, the answer was so glaringly obvious, she felt like a fool for not seeing it before.

"It's nocturnal."

"Yes. As simple as that. So during the day -"

"They're resting."

"Yes."

Buried under the half dozen books on the desk was a map. Carlisle cleared the way so they could examine the markings he'd made earlier.

"All the recent attacks happened within a two-mile radius of this building," he pointed. "I believe it's a nest."

Charlotte gazed down at the oh-so-innocent-looking spot on the map, the way God must look down on the world. Her eyes, she could feel, her wide. Lit up with astonishment and zeal. This was the first real breakthrough in months. The first glimmer of hope.

"If we attack during the day, we stand a chance. We can destroy them."

Her hushed excitement was a disappointment to Carlisle, it seemed, who dropped his eyes and a low voice, confessed:

"Perhaps, that won't always be necessary."

Her brow creased instantly but she waited for him to speak. After a long moment's consideration, he voiced his most uncertain thoughts. His dream.

"If these are creatures of instinct, they're no more evil than a bear or a lion. And if men can rise above their base instincts, why can't vampires? Why shouldn't they be redeemed?"

Charlotte stared at her uncle in disbelief. He had always been the most open, forward-thinking person she knew but sometimes he took it too far. She had seen the abomination that murdered her parents. She'd looked into its eyes and seen the truth. It was empty.

"They're soulless, Carlisle," she told him. "There's no redemption without a soul."


End file.
